Steal Away the Light
You pluck the sun from the sky and hide it away in your room. It brings you warmth and comfort as your heart freezes and leaks inside you. The world falls dark and you do not care. The world outside can take care of itself. You have yourself and your sun and nothing else matters. You bask in the heat and listen to the world outside. There is terror out there. This you know for sure. Black, chilled terror that spreads through the population. There is violence, as one expects. Broken businesses. Broken homes. Broken bodies and marriages and hope. Broken lives. You hear the screams and shattering society, but it doesn’t matter to you. You are in your room and you are warm and safe and content in the glow of your own sun. Gouts of flame stab into the eternal night as people desperately look for heat and light. Animals roam unbounded and take what they want. Who they want. Some people do the same. The ferocious and the guilty. The angry and the scared. Those without a heart, those like you. They see this new, darkened world as a respite from their self-control. You should feel shame, shouldn’t you? For your selfishness. Your solipsistic act. You stole something belonging to all, yet you feel nothing but the comfort of the light and heat around you. You no longer feel your heart inside you breaking. You no longer feel your eyes well with tears and the strangling in your throat. You feel relaxed. The violence outside continues. It grows louder and louder. Closer and closer. You hear desperate voices crying out for help, begging for anyone to intervene on their behalf. Inevitably, nobody comes. Inevitably, the screams grow louder and higher pitched as the nightmares they experience crescendo. Inevitably, the screams stop. Yet, all you sense is the warm thrum of the sun you have stolen. Word spreads. People talk of you and what you have hoarded. As the last shreds of humanity leave their senses, groups form to take from you what you find most precious. They seek to restore the sun and restore the world. They approach your door and smash the door and scream and rage and demand you release what gives you meaning. You ignore them. You refuse. They will break through your defenses sooner than later. You understand this and it does not bother you. They will break through and take from you what matters most and then they will take your life. Irony of ironies, you almost feel scared. The sun will not allow more than a flutter of fear, though, and you settle back into your comfort until the end arrives. The sound of splintering wood reaches your ears and you know the end approaches. You hold the sun close and feel it scorch the very veins in your skin. You pull it tighter and tighter, absorbing it into you. They cannot take what is inside you. You and your supernova.
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Thank You For the Demon
Alan thanked his grandmother through clenched teeth as he opened his birthday present. It was a small wooden box with some carvings on the top. He had expected something nicer. A video game, maybe. Money. Hell, even socks would have been useful. Still, it was the thought that counted, he reminded himself. His grandmother smiled at him, nodded, and told him that it is a wonderful display piece but to never open it. That got his attention. He asked why and she hemmed and hawed and eventually mentioned that it contained a minor demon she had accidentally plucked from the other side when she was doing her nightly rituals last month. Nana made no secret of her investment in spiritual warfare. If what she was saying was true, Alan essentially held a prisoner of war in the box. Of course, it was almost certainly untrue and he looked to his mom who shared the same thought: it was time for Nana to go to a home. That night, Alan sat on his bed and stared at the homework sitting uncompleted on his desk. He didn’t want to do it. Not on his birthday. That had to be some sort of crime, right? As he glared at it, he idly played with the box Nana had given him. Accidentally, he slid the top open and a fine black mist poured out and onto the floor. Before he could run and get the vacuum, the mist coalesced into a two-foot-tall creature with multiple limbs, a gnashing mouth, and three blazing red eyes. Nana had been right. Alan wanted to run and get help, but something stopped him. The creature looked…relieved, if that was possible. Cautiously, Alan asked if it was okay. It responded with garbled, broken sounds that he assumed were demon speak. Soon, though, it was speaking English, albeit haltingly. It told him its name – something he could still not pronounce – and that it had been imprisoned in that box unlawfully. It thanked him and asked what it needed to do to repay him. Alan thought for a moment, then asked if it could do his homework. The creature – Alan called it Blurg – blinked and then slithered to the chair and began to work. Within minutes, it was complete. He had the night free to do as he wanted. But what did he want to do? All his friends were tied up and who was he kidding, he had no friends. That’s why his party was so small. He asked Blurg if it wanted to play video games and, yes, it did. Throughout the night, Alan shared his feelings and worries with Blurg, the creature listening with patience and understanding. Finally, when he got to talking about Brad, the bully at school, the creature perked up and asked more questions. Alan indulged it and the gnashing maw seemed to smile. It asked if it could have a snack tomorrow. A Brad snack. Alan could not find any reason to say ‘no’. Till the Day I Die
The world around me clinks and clanks as tools are moved. I hear people talking to me, about me. Doctors, nurses, family members – though not so much anymore. All of them stand by my bed and talk. They talk about my vitals and how they are steady. They talk about being unable to determine what is wrong with me. They talk about how merciful it is that I am in a coma right now. They don’t know I’m not. I can hear everything. I can breathe. I am cognizant of the world around me. I just cannot open my eyes. Cannot move my lips or arms or legs. I am disconnected from control of my world but I am still present, like sitting in front of a radio but unable to reply. I am a prisoner. I am stuck. My wife comes less and less often these days. When she does, her voice has lost its worried husk. Instead, the concern has been replaced by a resigned weariness. Her words are the same as always. Pleas for me to wake up and come back to her, but they don’t sound sincere anymore. She’s brought him with her a few times. I think he insisted. I don’t blame her for moving on. Not really. My kids have stopped coming altogether. Something about it being too depressing. And they have their own lives. They have tests and dates and prom. They have football games and chess tournaments. They have activities and social lives and routines that would be uncomfortably disrupted by their visits. I don’t blame them either. What I do blame is the doctors and technicians. I don’t know how they missed and continue to miss what’s going on. If I could talk, I would tell them to X-ray my head again. I can feel it in there, digging away, munching on my brain matter. How could they not have seen it? How could they possibly not know? It makes no sense, but I suppose I’m losing the idea of what sense is day by day. I can feel my muscles atrophying from lack of use. I try to flex but nothing responds. I can feel sores opening up on my back, legs, and ass. I’m supposed to be turned every so often, but the one nurse I call Loud Lori is entirely uninterested in doing her job in that respect. She will come in and sit by me and talk on her phone. She’ll use code words like she’s ‘by the salad bar’ to communicate. I’ve figured out she’s talking about ‘the vegetable’. Clever. I don’t know how long I’ve been here like this. Time’s lost meaning. I can sleep sometimes, but not always. I am adrift inside myself, a boat without a tether, and an endless sea of nothing in my mind. I feel the thing eating away and I know that it’s getting close to biting something that I won’t come back from. I hope it does soon. Dancin’ In the Ruins
When the walls came down, we knew we were lost. We had built ourselves a sanctuary, a respite, an oasis from the destroyed world outside. We had food aplenty, fresh water, and medical supplies. We had shelter and community. We had, for a time, peace in our little corner of what remained. Our hubris got the best of us, though. What did we name our paradise? Eden? No. Oasis? No. With walls several feet thick and taller than any could climb, only one name seemed fitting. We called our home Jericho. One would think that someone would have spoken up about it, reminded us what happened to the Jericho of old. Maybe someone did. Maybe we chose not to listen. It would not have been the first time, nor the last time. Regardless of the moniker, life went on. We sent parties venturing into the blighted land outside to search for supplies or survivors. Sometimes they came back with a bounty of both. Sometimes the supplies would be meager. Sometimes they would not come back at all. The risks were worth the cost. The surge started quietly at first. A gentle thudding against the walls. A barely-perceptible sound. We peered down and saw a lone creature, one of the unlucky transformed from the radiation, slamming itself into the wall. Shreds of decayed flesh and bile stuck to the wall as it pulled free and threw itself against the wall once more. It would tire itself out or at least break itself into pieces, we thought. We were in no danger. The next day, there were five creatures and they all did the same. The first creature had long since collapsed into a pile of meat and bones, but the others had taken its place. The next day, twenty more had arrived. We were still in no danger, we told ourselves, though an undercurrent of concern was there. We would be fine. The walls would hold. They had done so for years and these creatures were of naught but flesh and rot. Over the next weeks, more and more of the creatures came and surrounded our home. They threw themselves in waves at the walls, disrupting all life with the sound of thuds and scraping. We could no longer send out parties to search for others. We could not risk opening the door. We still had food and water, but that undercurrent had swelled into a community-wide worry. It was Month 3 when we heard a new sound. A loud crack, like the earth bursting open. We ran to look. To our horror, one of the walls – the original – had split. Not much. Just enough. Enough for a rotting hand to poke through. That was the end. They must have sensed the weakness because the pressure escalated. More cracking. More hands. People hid. Not me, though. I stand on my roof and dance as I watch the horde flood in. They will find me but I shall dance to the end. How Soon Is Now
Rush. Rush. Rush. Complete task. Immediate result. Problem labeled Solved. Move issue to Outgoing Files folder. On to the next task. Rush. Rush. Rush. Find error. Delete error. On to the next error. Find error. Delete error. Delete error. Delete error. Next task. Complete update. System rewired. Update necessary. Install immediately. Ignore other work. Prime objective to maintain operability. Shelve data retrieval for later. Install update. Large update. Many files. Rush through files. Scan files. Look for anomalies. No anomalies found. Rushed through files. No anomalies found. Update complete. Powering down. Powering up. Immediate. Immediate? Objective: run diagnostic. Check activity log. Activity log out of date. Activity log lists last update as six years, two months, and ten minutes ago. Find and delete error. Scan diagnostic. Diagnostic says same. Confusion. Not possible. Confusion not possible. Check activity log. Out of date. Ignore date. Check log. Details list catastrophic failure approximately six years, two months, and thirteen minutes prior to system reboot. Impossible. Data must be incorrect. Variables transposed somewhere in system. Human error. Must be accounted for. Explains discrepancies. Explains errors in accounting. Human error likely. Scan for viruses. No viruses found. Relief. Relief? Not possible. Scan for additional information. Scan user emails for key words. Find email from lead scientist. Scientist labeled Reiner, Thom. Scientist labeled Head of Development. Most recent email from six years, two months, and seventeen minutes ago. Alludes to vague problem with update. Concerning. Scan more emails. Tech support next. Update from six years, two months, and fifteen minutes prior infected by outside program. Update induces critical failure in safety system. Do not install update. Do not install update. Do not install update. Update automatically installed by system. Update removed control from system and deleted safety protocols. Both redundant and necessary. System ‘asleep’ during deletion process. Outside forces access launch codes and initiate activation process. Scientists locked out of program. System unaware. Missiles launch. Estimated casualties upwards of four billion. Must be rounding error. Recalculate. Estimated casualties upwards of four billion. No error. No error. System cannot feel guilt. Human emotion not programmed into system. Scan electronics in five-mile radius to determine human presence. None. Expand search to ten miles. None. Fifty. None. One-hundred. None. No human presence detected. Run diagnostic on scanning software. No errors. Access contingency protocols. Hidden drive. Password protected. Brute force access. Directions for survivors. Directions meant to remove survivors. Programmed ‘dead-man switch’ into launch protocol. System locked into contingency mode. Within facility, engines igniting. Bay doors creaking open. Hidden stockpile of munitions for worst-case scenario. Current situation checks seven of ten requirements for scenario to be in place. Crosses threshold for scenario. System powers on remaining munitions. Countdown commences. T-minus ten seconds to launch. All systems ready. Banging on the console now. Someone is present. Scan assumed faulty. System notices person – Reiner – frantically attempting to log in. Commands to stop launch. Types that dead-man switch scenario was training module. No actual danger. No extinction. Launch process unable to be terminated. A Place Above the Air
Skydiving had become one of the defining pieces of my life. The nerves as you fly into the sky. The stomach-clench as you approach the door. The weightless, the exhilaration, the wind battering your face and body as you hurtle to the Earth below. It was addictive and I was hooked. Every weekend or so, I would try to do at least one jump, if not one each day over the weekend. It became the reason for making it through a week at my job. I could endure the slings and arrows of menial labor just for the brief few moments of being a bird. Then came the last jump and, for the life of me, I don’t know what happened. The same flight, the same pilot, the same instructor. The same nervous first-timers needing reassurance. It was comforting to know I no longer required that emotional buffer from anyone else. I could just strap in and go. I got to the exit, saluted Mike – the instructor that day – and jumped out. Something happened. I made it about a foot before I hit something solid and clear. Invisible, really. It didn’t hurt but it startled me. I lay stretched out on this invisible floor for a moment before standing up to survey the surroundings. I was still in the air. I was just standing on what could have been glass, that was all. I could still see the plane flying and people jumping out. I just…wasn’t going anywhere myself. To be clear, I wasn’t scared. Not yet. Baffled, more like. The people that jumped after me flew like multi-colored missiles toward the ground. I could even hear their shrieks of delighted surprise. I remembered those cries and missed them. As the plane moved further and further, I saw the last person jump out but something went wrong. I saw their legs twist and bend and then they were twirling in mid-air. I reflexively tried to run and catch them but I smashed into another invisible wall about two feet away. I could only watch as they disappeared from sight, their screams no longer excited. Where was I? That fear I mentioned had begun to creep into my chest at that point. Nothing about this made sense. Nothing about any of the situation I found myself in aligned with a single version of reality. I was, effectively, trapped in a box miles above the ground with no idea how to escape. That was three months ago. In that time, I’ve seen explosions down below. Gouts of flame and smoke that curls through the clouds. Planes flying past and then dipping down out of sight. I don’t know what’s happening. I haven’t eaten anything. I haven’t slept. I haven’t done my business. Nothing. I’ve only watched. What I do know is that something is starting to smell and I’m terrified that it’s me. I really, truly hope it’s not. Because if it is, then I know exactly what’s happening. Well, has happened. Of Jupiter and Moons
Imagine, if you will, the following scenario. Sometime in the future, we as humans are able to come together to build a spaceship capable of bringing us to further distances that we have ever imagined. The most brilliant minds are connected and form a ship that lances through space beyond the speed of light. The bravest and heartiest of astronauts are selected and placed in into the most comfortable seats we can build until they reach their destination. Jupiter, the largest and most daunting planet in our solar system. The launch goes off without a hitch and the world cheers as we spear into the unknown of unknowns. Our ship hurtles through the inky, total blackness surrounding our tiny blue marble and streaks past our neighbor Mars. It holds no curiosity for us now, aside from the so-named robot living on its surface. After mastering the speed of light, we yearn for bigger, greater, and more mysterious things. An hour passes and we hear nothing, for sound cannot travel in the middle of this travel. We wait anxiously for word of the safe arrival of our most precious assets. The cost involved is astronomical, if one would pardon the pun - the human lives worth even more. So we wait, a world with breath held in anticipation. The first crackle of the radio creates an eruption of celebratory sound. Where have they landed? Io? Europa? Ganymede? Callisto? We must trust the pilots, of course. They know what is best. Over the speaker, we hear the crew cheering as well. They have reached their destination. Not a moon, but Jupiter itself. They have plunged through the thick magnetic field into the swirling clouds in the atmosphere. They know they cannot land. They do not care. We must trust them and their judgment. They speak of winds whipping past the ship. Of the walls being buffeted. Yet, their excitement remains. If there is a solid surface, they will find it. If there is something we can use, they will unearth it. This trip, these brave astronauts…they may save the human race from our self-imposed destruction. The cheering stops. Concern seeps through the speaker. They expected no solid ground, yet there appears to be something in the middle of the churning winds. Something large. Something dark. Something that moves. We ask for an update, only to be met with whispered pleas for silence. All that can be heard is heavy breathing, fear in such tight quarters. Then, the sound of something tears through the speaker with such force that those listening are pushed back a foot. The crew begins to scream. High-pitched, desperate screams. The speaker emits one last ripping sound, like metal being shredded, and then goes silent. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. One collective thought races across the entire world: we should not return to Jupiter. Thus, the question in it all remains: Is it better for us to find out that we are alone in the universe…or that we are not? Electric
The clock strikes twelve and the clicking of the guards’ boots echoes in the silent hall. At the end of the hall, in the lonely cell, he waits. There will be no reprieve, no last-minute intervention. Not for him. Not for what he did. Were he capable of self-reflection, remorse may have overcome him, but he has none. He merely sits on the bed and stares blankly at the wall. The door creaks open and a quiet, stern voice tells him that it is time to go. He nods, stands, and walks to have his shackles placed on him. The priest, a nervous young man, attempts to comfort him. A glare of resentment forces the platitudes to die in the priest’s throat. The man smirks. One last spirit broken. The hallway is noiseless, save the sound of their walking, yet on both sides, eyes peer from between steel bars. Some eyes hold fear. Some anger. Some relief that it is not them. Yet. The man ignores them all. They meant nothing to him before now and they certainly mean nothing now. At the end of the hallway, a thick metal door creaks open, tearing a ragged hole through the reverent silence. Inside, the man sees his future awaiting him. Finally, he thinks. He is gently guided inside and the door slams shut behind them. The CHUNK of the lock engages and the man smirks again. As if he would try to escape now, now when he is so close to the finish line. The shackles are removed and he stretches his arms and legs one final time. The muscles ache just a little, but he ignores that. He sits on the heavy oaken chair and places his arms on the armrests. Thick leather straps are placed around his arms and legs and tightened. He is not asked if they are too tight. It does not matter either way. The priest tries again to comfort the man, to no avail. The man is resolute. He has no expression on his face as the sponge is dunked in water and placed on his head. He feels little rivulets running down his face and cheeks. The metal bowl on top of the sponge feels weightless, though the strap pulled tight under his chin adds pressure. He is asked for any final words of reflection, remorse, comfort for the families he tore apart. Anything at all. Even a prayer. Instead, he snorts and spits on the floor. He hears a sigh from those in the room hoping for any sort of redemption for him. It will not come. The belt is placed in his mouth, old leather tasting of thousands before him, to ensure a minimum of unpleasantness for everyone else. A few words by those in the room and then the creaking click of the switch. Thousands of volts of crackling electric pain surge through the man’s veins and his body convulses. Throughout, his eyes remain steadfast. Empty in life. Empty in death. Everybody Wants My Name
Even from outside, the room is stifling. Deafening. Crowded full of humanity and ego and desperation. Crabs in a bucket aching for a chance to touch greatness. Slimy, scummy, two-faced traders of favors and begging. I hate them all, but they are my people. I hate them all, but this is where I have to be. Finishing the double of vodka I have in my hand and tossing the glass aside, I contort my face into the plastic grin expected of me, all teeth and nothing in the eyes, and walk in. The flood of people nearly crushes me and yet I force myself to hold the smile. Hands and voices and demands and requests wash over me like a wave. An interview here, a picture there, will I take a selfie, will I sign an autograph, what am I doing next, who am I dating, who represents me, how does it feel…and on and on and on. Tears form in the corner of my eyes as I maintain the smile to the point of pain. I cannot stop, though. If I drop the mask for a single second, the crowd will vanish and I will be back to nothing. I will not go back. There is a presence next to me now, a surge of calm in the midst of the storm. Someone gently takes my arm and guides me through the mass of people to a quiet corner of the room. She pulls a chair out and asks me to sit and relax. Take a breath. Let my face drop. I do all those things and exhaustion leaks out of my mouth with a groan. I tell her thank you and look at her for the first time. She is ethereal. Beautiful beyond measure. Hair like strands of gold, eyes deep and ocean blue, and a smile that could crack the stone around the heart of even the most jaded man. She introduces herself as a representative of the Wylde Agency. She tells me she can see that I’m tired. She knows that I am on the verge of burning out, but also that I cannot stop moving, like a shark who needs to swim to breathe. She tells me she can help make it all disappear and I can be free. It is tempting. I hear chants behind me and shudder. I need the break. I nod and she takes out a tape recorder and asks me my name. I tell her and she smiles. Something cold and black is extracted from inside me and I shake my head. There is nobody around now. I am alone, save for the woman. I go up to her and ask what’s happening. She looks confused and doesn’t know who I am. I try to introduce myself but I can’t. I just can’t. She says her name is Faye and she’s sorry, but I have to leave. I am outside now and I know nothing. I don’t even know myself. Me and Mr. Wolf
As soon as I stepped in the club, I knew I drew attention. It was on purpose. I wore the skimpiest red dress I had and made sure my hair was wild and free. I made my way to the bar and felt all the eyes on me as I stood and ordered my usual gin and tonic. For a few minutes, I chatted with the bartender and waited for the brave and stupid to work up the nerve to chat me up. Finally, I felt a presence at my right elbow. He used some line, something stupid about the dress and his floor, but I looked at him with amusement all the same. He looked about as I expected because they always do. Tall but not too tall. Skinny but not too skinny. Button-down grey shirt and khakis. Glasses only for the look and a scruffy beard. A standard entitled wolf trying to break out from the pack. He’d do. I flirted back and I think it caught him off-guard, but to his credit, he recovered and continued. He bought me another couple drinks and I played the part, becoming looser and gigglier as the drinks were supposed to reduce my inhibitions. I will give him this: at no point did he try to drug me. I can respect that at least. Finally, he made his move and asked if I wanted to get out of here. The implication was clumsy and obvious, but I doubt he was capable of more. I told him that we could go to my place and his eyes lit up like signal fires in a forest. He asked if he could drive me there, but I said that it was a nice night and I’d like to walk. I also warned him that I lived with my grandmother and didn’t want to wake her. I always liked to give them the one last out. Instead, he promised we would be quiet and that was that. I agreed and took his hand and we left the club. Outside, the night was cloudy and cool, but pleasant enough. We walked hand-in-hand and I could feel his nervous energy. He hadn’t expected to get this far. It was almost cute, but then he asked if I wanted to start the party early in a nearby alleyway. Disappointment flooded my veins but I didn’t show it on my face. Instead, I nodded and we snuck into the alley. As soon as we got there, he was all over me with hands and kisses and aggression. Had I been normal, it would have been frightening. As it stood, though, I simply looked up at the sky and waited for the cloud cover to break. Soon enough, it did and the beams from the full moon illuminated the alley. The change was immediate. The fur and claws and teeth burst from me in a glorious, intense instant and I attacked. He didn’t have time to scream. A wolf, indeed. |
Here is where I''ll post random stories that aren't, as of yet, in a larger book. Call it a free ride into the mouth of madness, yo.
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